


If There Is A Light

by uumuu



Category: The Silmarillion and other histories of Middle-Earth - J. R. R. Tolkien
Genre: Alternate Universe - Canon Divergence, Developing Relationship, Flight of the Noldor, Gen, Half-Sibling Incest, M/M, Sexual Content, Shippy Gen
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-10-23
Updated: 2016-10-23
Packaged: 2018-08-23 20:52:51
Rating: Mature
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 4,763
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/8342296
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/uumuu/pseuds/uumuu
Summary: Finwë leaves behind a precious gift.





	

**Author's Note:**

  * For [amyfortuna](https://archiveofourown.org/users/amyfortuna/gifts).



It was thanks to their father that they were there. Finwë had disregarded the Valar's orders for Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë to appear before them in the Ring of Doom, and had taken matters into his own hands, forcing them to spend three days together in a set of rooms at the very heart of his house, ensuring that they would be shut-off from the rest of the building for the occasion.

Hours after having been locked in, they were both still sitting where Finwë had left them – with a fair number of admonitions and entreaties – Fëanáro on an armchair, facing the window, his back straight and his arms crossed over his chest, immobile; Ñolofinwë on the sofa to Fëanáro's left, his hands in his lap. At first, Ñolofinwë had been sure it would be only a question of time before Fëanáro attacked him again, and therefore sat tense, ready to strike back if Fëanáro were to lurch at him, ready to dodge if Fëanáro threw anything at him. 

Nothing of the sort happened. Nothing else happened. Fëanáro seemed lost in his own thoughts. He didn't speak, didn't even look at him. Rather than angry, he appeared to be dejected, and very tired. He huffed often and loudly at any rate, and inhaled as deeply as one who needs to regain their breath after an exhausting trek uphill.

Ñolofinwë gradually relaxed, and let his mind wander, going back over the events that had brought them to those rooms. Wariness gave way to pensiveness and then stark boredom. The second Mingling was over when he finally made up his mind to ask Fëanáro the one question that had been plaguing him ever since the sword-incident. He couldn't imagine how Fëanáro would react, but he would take the risk – for their father's sake, he repeated to himself. 

“Would you really kill me?”

His voice sounded as flat as he wanted it to, betraying none of the distress the question caused him.

Fëanáro startled. He blinked, and jerkily uncrossed his arms, as if suddenly remembering that he was an incarnate with full control over his own body. 

“I don't know,” he drawled, and if the answer wasn't what Ñolofinwë had been hoping for, he appreciated Fëanáro's sincerity, at least. Fëanáro went on, however, his voice a little less hoarse-sounding. “It was like a nightmare come true...hearing you say those words. Me, a traitor to my father! And after all those rumours that you and your brother would oust me as misbegotten, with leave of the Valar.”

“Melkor plied his wiles quite effectively.” 

“The Valar did say that my birth proceeds from the Marring.”

“You believed him.”

Fëanáro snorted, crossing his arms again. “You said exactly what he wanted you to say.”

“And you did exactly what he wanted you to do.”

“...I only met him _once_ ,” Fëanáro spat, baring his teeth at the very memory. “...I even built a secret forge, so that I could be sure he wouldn't come bothering me while I worked, and would stay away from my sons, with his talk of betrayal and danger. Then your people started carrying shields in public, with your emblem.”

“And I saw your people's.” Ñolofinwë lifted both eyebrows meaningfully when Fëanáro raised his head to lour at him. “But yes, we _both_ should have put a halt to it before it got out of hand, instead of worrying who had the greatest following, and heeding every last bit of talk.”

Fëanáro nodded, exhaling loudly through his nose. He reminded Ñolofinwë of an angered bull. With the heavy agility of a bull he leapt to his feet and strode to the wall, punching it violently. Ñolofinwë cringed, sure he heard bone crack. 

“The cursed abomination!” Fëanáro yelled. “And the Valar would punish us rather than pursuing him!”

“Well...you did speak against them.”

“Of course I did.” Fëanáro glared at the wall, his fist still quivering in mid-air. “They released him in the first place.”

“Do you really want to leave?” 

Fëanáro scoffed at the question, turning his head to cast him a sneering glance. 

“...so that you can be King?”

“Don't be ridiculous. But I would lead my people out of Valinor.”

“ _Our_ people,” Ñolofinwë corrected. “I don't think you'd be cut for it. I am more versed in politics, at any rate, and more...suited to govern than you.”

“Sitting in a council room, maybe.” Fëanáro scrunched his nose and walked away from the wall. He came to stand in front of him, and it still didn't look like he had any intention of attacking him or anything of the sort. “How long does it take to go on foot from Tirion to the wastes of Avathar? What kind of supplies would you need? In what quantity? Have you trained with a sword?”

“I do not _own_ a sword.”

Fëanáro gaped for a moment – he looked genuinely surprised – then opened his arms in a shrug. “Then I shall make you one.”

An ominous uneasiness, something denser than a vague foreboding he could breeze across and forget, made Ñolofinwë shiver. “I hope we shan't need swords after today.”

“You still believe the Valar are able – or willing – to protect us? What if Melkor has allies outside of Valinor we don't know of?”

“And you would go back to Middle-Earth, exposing yourself to whatever danger may lie in wait there?”

“What tells you Melkor won't ever attack here? The Valar aren't doing anything to actively guard their own land, they noticed unrest among the Ñoldor but they didn't even suspect Melkor might be behind it. The fault is all mine, of course, because I openly spoke against them!” Fëanáro gave a short, strident laugh. “How easy to avoid their wrath by not doing things openly and hiding from them!”

Ñolofinwë bit back his objection. Fëanáro wasn't entirely wrong, and he knew that his half-brother's notorious brand of stubbornness would only become direr if stoked with dissent. Fëanáro would surely be more willing to listen to him if he let minor matters slip and gave him the chance to vent. What they had to agree about wasn't their opinion of the Valar.

“Come here,” he said, nodding towards Fëanáro's right hand.

Fëanáro turned it over and noticed the blood flowing out of his knuckles.

Their eyes locked. Ñolofinwë half-expected to be rebuffed, but Fëanáro sighed and came to sit next to him, and didn't look awkward at all as he stretched his hand towards him. Ñolofinwë took it, feeling the area all around the knuckles, making sure there were no broken bones. 

“Are you a healer, too?” Fëanáro said, and genuine interest was much more significant than mocking in his voice.

Ñolofinwë snickered. “I can tell broken bones from hale ones.”

“It won't scar, will it?”

“I don't –” Ñolofinwë began to say, but Fëanáro's left arm shot out towards his neck, and brushed the spot where his sword had pricked it. There was still a scab there, not big but dark and distinct against Ñolofinwë's skin. Ñolofinwë stiffened, and had to gulp back a quiver before he could reply. Fëanáro's fingers rippled on his neck with the force of his swallowing.

“It won't.”

“It was awful,” Fëanáro muttered.

“If you _are_ in fact upset with attacking me –” Ñolofinwë ventured, letting the words hover between them, while he continued to massage Fëanáro's hand, but more as a way to stifle his own trepidation.

Fëanáro looked down and followed his fingers' movement. “I am.”

“Then it's fine, I guess. Perhaps, we can avoid any more great misunderstandings in the future, undo our weaknesses, if we talk more...like our children do.”

Fëanáro's lips attempted a smile and seemed to form a 'yes'. Then he cocked his head to one side. “Do you like doing that?”

Ñolofinwë realised he wasn't just massaging Fëanáro's hand anymore, he was also brushing his index fingers and thumbs on his wrist, feeling tendons and veins, assessing the texture of his skin. Fëanáro didn't pull his hand away, so he continued. 

“Do you mind?” he asked in turn.

“Not really.”

“Well, let's go to the bathroom, I'll clean this up.”

*

Three days later, when Finwë let them out of their confinement, they emerged tired but unscathed – and even so the apprehension on Írimë's face took a while to fade. 

With nothing else to keep their minds or hands busy, they had ended up talking of any and every subject after that first tentative conversation, from the most frivolous to the most sensitive. Their differences were not fully resolved yet, but they had addressed them, which was more than a good start. They had no chance to go further than that. The Valar's decree that Fëanáro was to be exiled for twelve years for speaking openly against them and breaking the peace of Aman was handed to Finwë the day after the end of their confinement, during a dinner meant as celebration. 

Finwë's protests that sending Fëanáro from Tirion for so long would thwart any attempt at reconciliation were to no avail. Insulted and embittered, Finwë took himself into exile with Fëanáro, locking his crown in a casket after declaring that he held himself unkinged so long as his first-born and heir wasn't free to dwell wherever he pleased, as Melkor still was. 

The ill-will Fëanáro and Ñolofinwë had attempted to quell threatened to resurface. Ñolofinwë was far from happy to see his father go. Fëanáro held that Ñolofinwë too should have been penalised – he too had his share of responsibility in the unrest, regardless of the fact that he had not challenged the Valar's authority. 

Fëanáro's sons joined their father, save Maitimo and Macalaurë, who remained in Tirion – on Finwë's orders – to take care of their father's affairs. Nonetheless, a large number of Fëanáro's followers decided to follow him north, deepening Finwë's fear that the exile would only foster division. 

Ñolofinwë ruled what was left of the Ñoldor in Tirion, as he had already done at times, when Finwë wasn't there, but Maitimo shadowed him, and his shadow was tall. Their seeming concord did much to ease the unrest in the population at large, even in the face of creeping uncertainty about the future, and it was with much consternation that they received Finwë's letter detailing how Melkor had visited Formenos and tried to ensnare Fëanáro. Therefore they climbed Taniquetil together and urged the Valar to apprehend Melkor as the true instigator of the unrest in Valinor, showing them the letter. Melkor was not to be found in Aman and the Valar would not pursue him outside of their borders. 

The prickly sense of foreboding Ñolofinwë had felt during his conversation with Fëanáro curdled into an ever-present weight inside him. Would Melkor come to him next, and try to ensnare him? Or would he swap force for blandishments? Those thoughts kept him awake, night after night, mistrustful of every shadow, until the day of the festival, and in the sudden darkness he thought he heard Fëanáro say once again, _'what tells you Melkor won't ever attack here?'_.

The attack was as dire as both Ñolofinwë and Fëanáro feared.

Ñolofinwë stood next to Fëanáro in the Ring of Doom while Curufinwë, weary and stricken, relayed the attack on Formenos, and dashed after his brother as Fëanáro plunged into the dark, near maddened by grief. He caught him, and held him in a crushing embrace until Fëanáro cried himself into exhaustion, clawing at his back with the blind fury of a wounded beast, ripping his light tunic and leaving marks on his skin, nail-bites which would scar. Those marks were Ñolofinwë's tears. Holding Fëanáro was like holding his own grief, heaving and sobbing, all too tangible and lacerating. 

Even harsher and bitterer was the realisation that it took their father's death to bring them together, to make them rely on each other: a gift too dearly paid to squander. Together they succoured the people of Formenos, and together they led the Ñoldor out of Tirion. Very few remained, especially after the Valar averred to all that enquired that they would not release Finwë. Rúmil hesitated until the very last moment, but faced with Fëanáro's despair, took his three more treasured scrolls and joined the host.

In Alqualondë, the Teleri rejected their request for help: they would not lend them their ships nor teach them how to build their own, claiming that it would be improper of them to do so, since the Ñoldor's venture went against the wishes of the Valar. Arafinwë pleaded with his law-father and law-brothers, but they were immovable, and urged instead the Ñoldor to turn back and return to the protection of the Valar. Fëanáro raged, reminding Olwë of how freely the Ñoldor had helped the Teleri in the past. Ñolofinwë ordered the gems which dotted the beaches surrounding the town to be collected to the very last one. Every man, every woman, and every child in the host scoured the sands, and soon the streets of Alqualondë were flooded with round, smooth gems of every colour.

The Teleri surrendered their ships only after Fëanáro threatened to burn them all if they insisted on refusing them any sort of help, and Ñolofinwë said nothing to contradict him. The host was growing restless, exasperated by the long wait and the knowledge that they were being denied help by those they deemed their friends. Scuffles had already broken out between the Ñoldor and Telerin mariners, and the situation would only get worse. The Ñoldor had to leave, but they couldn't leave without ships. 

No friendship endured between the two people upon their parting. Arafinwë followed his siblings, but his heart was heavy with the hurt his law-family had suffered. Uinen, who heeded the Teleri's lamentations, stirred a mighty tempest as soon as the Ñoldor sailed into the open sea past Tol Eressëa. Some of the ships were caught in it, and those on board were swallowed by the ruthless deep. Elenwë was among those who drowned, and it took the joint effort of Turucáno, Írissë and Tyelcormo to save Itarillë from the waves. 

Shaken, but strengthened in their resolve by the hostility of the Valar, the Ñoldor steered their ships north-west once the tempest had abated, following the stars.

*

After the brief stop for water on Tol Eressëa, Ñolofinwë boarded the same ship as Fëanáro, to have his say in whatever plan Fëanáro came up with, to watch over his decisions, and just be close to him. Ever since the day they had learnt of Finwë's death – since they had clung to each other not to be devoured by loss – he had started looking at his brother not only as someone tied to him by the bond of blood, not as friend or an ally. He would have questioned such feelings, before the Darkening; now, they were a blessing to fight worry and grief. 

The small cabin below deck where Fëanáro and he spent long hours alone seemed to have been built with the exact goal of ensuring that those feelings could find fertile soil to grow and mature.

That one time, as every other time before, Fëanáro sat down on the bare planks – smooth and pristine white – out of which the ship had been fashioned, his ever-present sword clanking down at an awkward angle next to him. He pulled out a heap of notes from a box and started reviewing them. Ñolofinwë observed him, then silently sat in front of him – cross-legged, their knees almost touching – and took Fëanáro's right hand in his. He massaged it as he had on that day in their father's house that felt like a dream he could never return to, when they had both still believed in the possibility of a happy life. Fëanáro sighed wretchedly, looking away from the notes, and his face scrunched up, no doubt assailed by the same memory, so Ñolofinwë drew his hands upwards, to Fëanáro's arm, inching closer to him until bending a little to the side and down was all it took for him to kiss his older brother on the mouth.

The touch was light, but too wet for it to be mistaken as a brotherly kiss, too long for it to be brushed off as unintentional. A choked mumble thrummed against his lips. Ñolofinwë insisted, rising on his knees and kneeling athwart his brother's legs. 

Fëanáro's mouth opened to him, and the faint rustling of the sheets of parchment sliding from his lap was the sweetest of sounds to Ñolofinwë. His arousal sprang to life all at once. The force, the sudden rush of it made him think of the long time passed since he had last had sex with someone, of the sweet abandon of it. He also thought of Anairë. It wasn't a surprise to him that she had chosen to stay with Eärwen, considering the rancorous parting between the Ñoldor and the Teleri. Anairë and he hadn't married for love. They had been good friends, but never more than that. 

Fëanáro drew him deeper into the kiss, wrapping his lips around Ñolofinwë's tongue and trying to suck it into his mouth, and all thoughts vanished from his mind.

Leather creaked and fabric rustled while they freed each other from their clothing. Ñolofinwë undid Fëanáro's sword-belt and tossed the weapon away. Their movements were unsure, but neither wanted to break the kiss, their mouths seeking each other again whenever they parted for air. Some of the lacings snapped, but Ñolofinwë noticed only much later, all his attention turned to the warmth of Fëanáro's body as it was revealed under his hands, to the coarse caress of Fëanáro's hands on his own skin. 

Fëanáro didn't protest when Ñolofinwë pushed him back and down onto the makeshift bed made with their mantles and coats piled up, and a bag filled with spare clothing for pillow. Ñolofinwë finally broke the kiss, gently nuzzling Fëanáro's head to the side, but only to descend over the strong line of his chin and along the taut length of his neck, scatter wet kisses down his chest. He brushed his lips down Fëanáro's erection, musky and silky, then licked it, making a rumbling noise in his throat that coursed down the whole length of the organ and quivered through Fëanáro. 

He glanced up. Fëanáro supported himself on his elbows, intrusive eyes staring down at him, kindled with desire and curious what he would do. Ñolofinwë held his gaze and kissed the tip of his cock. Then he pushed Fëanáro's thighs back and lowered himself further still, burying his head in his brother's crotch. He gave Fëanáro's entrance a slow lick. It was met with a shudder and a groan, so he did it again and again, getting his brother wet with his spit, in and out. He couldn't have told how long he spent lapping at his brother's hole. He knew only that when he looked up again Fëanáro's head was tilted back, that his own shoulders and back were stiff and that his cock smeared precome all over their discarded clothing. 

Fëanáro was impossibly tight when he breached him, and barely slick enough for him to slide in. Next time he would do it properly – he would make sure there was a next time – find proper lubricant and spend longer still just fondling his brother and getting him ready. But Fëanáro was no fragile youth. Fëanáro opened up to him, pushed back and threw his arms around him, holding him almost as tightly as he had after fleeing from the Ring of Doom. Ñolofinwë started moving, and they rocked together until they had spent all their energy, and semen and sweat united them, mixing on their bodies.

Ñolofinwë didn't want to pull out just yet. Fëanáro gave no sign of wanting him to. Therefore he lay on his side, bringing Fëanáro with him and pulling one of Fëanáro's legs over his own waist. Still joined, curled into each other, they dozed off while the ship swayed on the sea, like a cradle left exposed to blustery winds. 

*

Days passed, and the sea surrounded them on every side, like a nightmare that would never end. The stars were reflected on the glassy surface of the water whenever the wind dropped, and it was hard to tell where the sky ended and the sea began. 

And then, suddenly, they sailed through an invisible wall, and daylight washed over them. 

It wasn't quite as Laurelin's daylight. Laurelin had cast forth a subdued brilliance, shining as it were through a series of veils, with flecks of gold ever drifting in the air. The light beyond Varda's dome was richer, like undiluted paint, the sky so clear its blue looked almost solid. A sphere of radiance hung in the middle of it, its splendour blinding.

“Is that –?” Fëanáro began, turning his head up, but immediately fell silent again and stared with his head thrown back and a hand slanting down from his forehead to shield his eyes. 

On every other ship, the passengers clustered on the decks and looked up at the sky in wonder, but the older elves, rejoicing, hailed the yellow sphere in the sky as an old friend.

Rúmil was one of them. “The Valar claimed the light out here was polluted. I forgot how sheer it is.”

“I heard the tales of the light in Cuiviénen, but I didn't quite imagine it'd be this...bright.” Ñolofinwë said, eyes narrowed to slits.

“The darkness the Valar spoke of was metaphorical, yes. To be honest I half-dreaded it wouldn't be there any longer, after what happened to the Trees.” Rúmil dropped a kiss in the palm of his hand, and blew it up at the sky. “Anar, the all-fire. His sister, Ithil, the all-sheen, is queen of the night.”

Anar and Ithil captured everybody's attention, making them all forget that they had already spent quite a long time in the ships and their supply of water would soon run out. Fëanáro and Rúmil spent hours debating whether it was a bigger star or a closer star, or perhaps a body of light entirely different from a star. 

With Anar and Ithil it was easier to keep track of time, though their alternation had nothing common with a Mingling, and wasn't as regular. Anar and Ithil never mingled. Anar rose in front of them, in the East they were trying to reach, and sank behind them, seemingly plunging beyond the horizon in a triumph of red, rose, violet, leaving the sky all black. Ithil could be glimpsed in the sky before nightfall, but only truly shone in the dark, as if it absorbed the light Anar left behind. The stars seemed clearer and more lustrous than they ever had in Valinor while the Trees stood.

The small cabin remained untouched by changes in the outside world, and Ñolofinwë and Fëanáro continued to spend their hours of rest together. More often than not, they didn't have sex, but Fëanáro would sit with his notes in his lap, scribbling or reviewing them out loud. Ñolofinwë would sit behind him, his arms locked around Fëanáro's waist and his head resting on his shoulder, taking it all in and humming his assent or dissent. At times, he would force himself to remain awake when Fëanáro fell asleep, and took his rest by observing his brother when care and grief left his face. 

They were dozing off together, late at night when the first timid pallor began to chase darkness away from the horizon, when the cry finally went up of, 'earth!'

They both emerged from the cabin dishevelled and still half-undressed. Tyelcormo met them with tears of joy in his eyes. The other Fëanorians and Rúmil clustered at the railing, peering at the land that stretched before them.

Soon they could make out the coastline. Arafinwë's ship took the lead, heading towards the nearest stretch of it, where two promontories jutted out towards the open sea, like two arms reaching out to welcome them back home.

Following Arafinwë's ship, the others all carefully slipped between the two, in a long file. Far into the deep gulf they could see a town, rising with sheer white walls from a clump of rock directly overlooking the sea, and bedecked with numerous lights which grew ever fainter in the rapidly lightening sky. They sailed until they came to a sandy beach, and Arafinwë judged it best not to risk shallower waters. 

He halted his ship, and cast anchor there.

*

“Círdan,” Fëanáro repeated the name, looking intently at the much older elf.

“Formerly known as Nowë,” Rúmil added, smiling. Círdan and he had hugged in disbelief upon finding each other among throngs of surprised people. 

“Finwë's children,” Círdan said, his kind eyes filled with wonder and sorrow. Fëanáro, Ñolofinwë, Arafinwë and Írimë sat one next to the other in front of him, travel- and battle-worn.

Morgoth's orcs, who roamed Western Beleriand undisturbed, had attacked them while they were still disembarking, charging down at them from the hills rising up behind the beach. The Ñoldor were scattered, and skirting the sea some of them came the walls of the town they had seen in the gulf, whereupon its gates were thrown open. When Anar was at its peak, the orcs had all been destroyed. 

“I am grieved by circumstances of your arrival, but I confess I am happy to see you here. The Dark One's hold on these lands is growing ever stronger.” 

“Where is Mor-...the Dark One?” Fëanáro asked.

“Further north. Quite far from here, for the time being. He has a large fortress there, a prison, where he keeps the elves he captures.” Círdan paused, giving the five Ñoldor the time to understand and work through the meaning of his words. “Orcs destroyed every village, every forest, every well in these parts. I can't provide you with supplies, but you can be my guests while you take care of your wounded and find a suitable location to settle your people.”

The gates of Eglarest remained open while the Ñoldor set up camp right in front of the town under Arafinwë and Írimë's supervision, providing protection and getting it in return.

Círdan took Ñolofinwë and Fëanáro out on the top of the highest tower in the town, and showed them the mountains which encircled the north of Beleriand, and beyond them – a mere black lump, but threatening enough – Morgoth's fortress. Círdan then left them alone to rejoin Rúmil.

Ñolofinwë and Fëanáro stood side by side next to the parapet, in pensive silence, though Ñolofinwë contemplated his brother more than he did Morgoth's fortress or the new information they had received about their enemy.

“And so, Brother, here we are,” he said after a while, over the loud whistling of the wind.

He turned fully towards Fëanáro, trying to exhort a reaction out of him with the force of his gaze. He feared that the intimacy between them had been only a temporary thing, an unpolished jewel tucked away in the folds of the suspended time of the crossing, but he wasn't quite sure how to broach the subject with Fëanáro: they had never talked of what they did in the cabin. 

Fëanáro abruptly whirled about and gripped his head with both hands. He drew him down and pressed his lips to his, stealing his breath away in a passionate, desperate kiss.

After the initial surprise, Ñolofinwë grasped his sides and manoeuvred him until he could push him back against the wall, then forcibly removed his lips from Fëanáro's, panting.

“Don't...” Fëanáro said, his hands sliding down below his neck to clutch at his mantle, his last words lost in a whisper. 

“What?”

“Don't leave me,” Fëanáro repeated. 

Ñolofinwë skipped a beat. Fëanáro tugged on his mantle, frowning up at him. Ñolofinwë ducked and kissed him again, bridling the urge to laugh with a joy so fierce it could have burst his chest open. He shouldn't have been so happy that Fëanáro would interpret a simple 'here we are' as the prelude to a parting. But that joy was a measure of how strong his own need for his brother had become. Ñolofinwë felt he held half a victory already as he tasted Fëanáro's lips in the full light of the sun, the very last fruit of their father's effort, surely not what Finwë had had in mind, but beautiful and precious.

“I won't,” he gasped with the little air he sucked in whenever his mouth wasn't glued to his brother's. “I swear I won't.”

**Author's Note:**

> I used the Myths Transformed take on the Sun and Moon - i.e. they existed before the Two Trees and Varda put a dome over Valinor (Nur-menel) replicating the actual sky to keep out Melkor's spirits - and took it a step further by making the Sun male and the Moon female (in the Elves' conception anyway).


End file.
